


Nowhere Near

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post - Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry finds himself in exile. With Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Near

Harry woke in a forest, his skin drenched in greenish light, pupils wide open in the gloom. The air smelled of decay. Around him thick tree roots wove through the ground.

He lay on his back feeling disconnected, like it didn't matter who or where he was. The skin on his hand tickled, and he lifted it to his face to watch a tiny black centipede crawl across his knuckles. There was blood sliding down his wrist. Absently, he turned over his palm to see a deep, fresh cut.

Panic flashed through him. He jerked himself to his feet, heart thumping, and whipped his body around in every direction. His eyes strained for attackers — for Voldemort. His empty fingers grasped for his wand.

But the dense forest stretched away from him in every direction, fading into darkness. The light seemed to pool where he stood, steadily failing the further he looked into the distance. They could be anywhere, he realised, behind any tree. They could be ten feet from him and he'd never know until it was too late. He forced himself into his training, to be calm, to listen, and to look. But he saw nothing, only twisted trees wrapped in choking vines. He shivered uncontrollably, and his last memory began to wash over him.

He tried to will it away, but it was impossible. In a rush all the pain in his body came to life. Every part of him hurt. He raised a shaky hand to his hair — it was wet and stringy with blood.

He fought Voldemort on the exposed rock at the edge of a cliff, heavy clouds hanging over them, ducking and weaving, shouting curse after curse over the roar of the grinding sea below, and he was winning. He could sense Voldemort weakening, power and blood draining from his wounds as the light bled from the sky. But Harry lost his footing against a ragged outcrop and fell; his spine bent painfully over a rock, and before he could roll to his feet Voldemort was on him.

In the forest Harry drew a sharp breath into his lungs, and spat the taste of blood from his mouth.

Voldemort's stretched face hovered over his, the flesh smooth but stinking, the sharp teeth flashing white. A creeping, aching cold filled Harry's body, beginning where Voldemort's fingers bruised his flesh, and his weight crushed the air from his chest. He was helpless. The knowledge overwhelmed him. It was all for nothing: all the war, all the deaths, everyone believing in him. He'd failed. All the euphoria he'd felt fighting on his feet turned to fear.

Voldemort's red eyes dripped blood into Harry's, washing his vision red — blurring out the sky, the wind, and the rain — everything but the dead face. The blood welled onto his cheeks, and Harry felt it stinging, carving new scars as it slid down his face.

He struggled and struggled, but Voldemort effortlessly held him still. He tried to strike at him with wandless magic, but his mind slipped and stumbled and could not focus. As his heart pumped panic through his veins, Voldemort's watchful eyes changed. Harry saw the glow of victory in their red depths, like a monstrous snake about to strike. But then slowly and gently, in a parody of care, Voldemort picked Harry up. He cradled him against his chest, opening his robes. With equal care he dragged the sharpened nails of one hand across Harry's breast, slicing him open. Harry could only watch, his body numb and useless. He could not resist as Voldemort raised him above his head like an offering, screaming an incantation into the wind, and flung him high into the air over the edge of the cliff. Harry felt the wounds in his chest open and his life bleed out. He screamed and screamed and screamed, falling through the frictionless air, down down down, the terrified whites of his eyes matching the churning water below.

In the forest, his body shook, his breath coming harshly. He looked down. Across his chest under his torn shirt were four deep grooves, wet with blood. Blood soaked his shirt and his open robes. Blood seeped into his trousers. He felt himself swaying, the trees in front of him a darkening blur. As he fell he threw out his arms and caught himself against a rotting tree.

He leaned into it, blinking in the brackish light, and slowly came back together. His whole body throbbed painfully — but his heart was pumping — his unharmed skin rosy with the blood still in his veins. He had absolutely no idea why he was alive — why he wasn't a pile of broken bones at the base of a cliff in Scotland.

"Hello?" he said recklessly. There was a small scurrying noise like a tiny animal.

"Hello!" he shouted. "Hello!" Nothing responded. The sound faded quickly, deadened by the forest. In a panic, he scanned the ground for his wand, but saw nothing.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" he yelled, and again his voice seemed to dissolve into the dense air.

Then a branch snapped behind him.

He spun around, his fingers grabbing uselessly for his wand, but he could see nothing. He froze, listening, but there were no more sounds.

Cursing his stupidity, Harry crouched down and crawled out of sight under some ferns, putting his sore back against the dead tree trunk. He strained his ears but could hear nothing but wind turning the leaves far above and a sound like water running over stones. He crouched for what seemed like hours, his muscles aching, skin crawling with fear, but nothing happened. He needed to search the uneven ground properly for his wand, but he was too scared to move from the cover of the ferns. He longed for the security of his wand. Then a freeze-frame of memory filled his mind; he saw himself spread helplessly in flight, tumbling out of the sky towards the rocks, his wand slipping out of his frozen fingers.

For a moment he felt black despair. Lost, alone, unarmed — he'd really got himself in the shit this time. But then, abruptly, his heart lightened. He was still alive after all. There was nothing he could do so there wasn't much point in worrying, and he was too exhausted to keep on being terrified anyway. If the bastards wanted him, they could come and get him. At least it would be over.

He stared morosely out through the ferns, letting the heaviness of years of war and responsibility wash out of him for once.

He looked down at where Voldemort had sliced open his chest. The four long wounds throbbed painfully, but the blood had dried and was starting to scab. They curved diagonally across his chest with quite a flourish at the end. He looked ridiculous. Like a tiger had decided to make him its bitch. _Fuck it_ , he thought. _I'm thirsty._ And with that he stood up in the ferns and began walking towards the faint sound of water.

He'd taken about four steps when, behind him, a cold dark voice cut through the silence.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry spun, and there he stood, unbelievably, impossibly, wrapped in self-command: Snape.

"What the hell…?" he trailed off, backing away. "Snape? What the fuck!"

Snape looked as though he considered several insults; but said only, "Compose yourself, Potter."

Harry shut his mouth, that commanding voice effective still, even years later. Snape ran assessing eyes over him, raising an eyebrow when Harry boldly returned his gaze. Still tall, still ugly, still a tosser, thought Harry, but how could it be Snape? This man was wearing a ragged grey T-shirt revealing tanned arms, and a pair of worn black jeans. No robes, no hundreds of buttons, and no bat wings of hair — it was roughly shorn about an inch from his head. But there was a larger reason this couldn't be Snape.

"You're meant to be dead!" Harry said angrily.

"Better," said Snape. "But putting aside my corporeal status, tell me immediately how you found this forest."

"You're not dead," Harry said stupidly.

"Answer the question, Potter!" Snape barked out.

"I don't know! I woke up here a few hours ago."

"Precise as usual I see," Snape said, his voice heavy with disdain. "Give me your wand."

"There's no bloody way you're getting your greasy hands on my wand!" shouted Harry.

Snape extended his brown arm towards Harry. "Potter, let us establish one thing clearly before we descend into childish insults; do you, in fact, have your wand?" Harry saw sweat on Snape's forehead and an odd, hungry look in his eyes. But then he noticed the lean arm reaching towards him, the open hand. To his absolute disbelief he could see dirt under Snape's fingernails.

"Have you been… digging?"

"Your wand, Potter!" A fleck of spit hit Harry's face. He dragged his eyes back to Snape's and saw the tension in them. "I don't have it, git," he said, seeing no reason to lie, and none at all to be polite. "Do you think I'd be hanging around here if I did?"

Snape stared at him, his eyes sharp with spite, his arm still stretched toward Harry.

Harry pushed the arm roughly away. "Voldemort threw me off a cliff. I lost my wand. I woke up here."

Something died in Snape's eyes — he saw it in the split second before Snape looked away.

"I should be dead," Harry said.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter. Shut up. And follow me."

And with that Snape turned on his heel and strode away through the forest. Harry had to half run to keep up with him, tripping and stumbling on fallen logs and deep hollows that Snape simply stepped over. The trees grew densely together, and the dim light was cut with their shadowy shapes. Snape walked almost silently compared to Harry's rustling steps and heavy breathing. His tall figure was hard to follow, a smoky column slipping between the trees, only the back of his pale neck glowing whitely in the gloom. Harry's robes caught and snarled every few steps. Several times he fell on his face, until finally he twisted his robes around himself and tucked them into his jeans. Snape paused and waited while he was doing this, and Harry thought he saw a tiny flash of teeth.

Then Snape came to a rise in the ground covered by gnarled roots. Crowning the rise was a giant tree, larger at its base than the Whomping Willow and extending so high Harry couldn't see the top. Snape picked his way carefully up over the roots and stood leaning against the ancient trunk, his back to Harry. Harry clambered up after him.

"Home," Snape said, when he came level with him. His voice was soft. Harry's eyes flicked uncontrollably to Snape's throat.

Then Snape jerked his head, and Harry looked down.

Spread out below them was a garden. It was open to the sky and filled with pale evening light. Harry could see tomatoes and beans, the feathery tops of carrots, and something that looked like spinach. He could see small fruit trees, shrubs really, and patches of bushy herbs. But most surprising were the flowers. Tiny ragged roses and fleshy lilies, glowing whitely against the edges of the forest, like sentinels.

Harry could feel Snape's eyes on him as he looked at the garden.

He followed Snape down into it and through the rows. Harry saw most of the vegetables were protected with nets made of fine mesh. On the far side of the garden was a wooden hut, built with uneven planks. There were no windows, only a door with an iron catch. Snape paused at the door, waiting for Harry to catch up.

"Sit," he said, indicating a seat carved out of a tree stump beside the hut. Harry obeyed. The walk had made his pain fresh again. One of the wounds on his chest had broken its scabs and was seeping blood. He ached down to his bones.

Snape disappeared into the hut and emerged with a large metal pot and a small wooden box. Taking the pot he followed a path made of stones down a shallow gully, and there at the bottom was a stream. There was a deep pool that looked like it might be good to swim in, but mostly the water ran fast and shallow. Snape bent and held the pot under a lip of stone in the flow and let it fill with water. Then he reached his arm into the edge of the pool and pulled something out.

Harry watched, his eyes straining in the fading light.

Snape walked up the path, water sloshing in the pot against his legs. He set it on the ground next to Harry and fished out an enamel cup brimming with water.

Harry took it, his fingers brushing Snape's, and drank deeply. It was cold, and tasted clean and sharp. Water ran down the sides of his face and onto his chest. He passed the cup to Snape who silently refilled it. Harry drank the second cup more slowly, relief washing over him.

Then Snape took a bottle of beer out of the pot. That must be what he got from the pool, thought Harry. Holding it against his thigh, Snape carefully prized open the lid with a piece of metal from his pocket.

He took the mug from Harry, poured half the beer into it, and handed it back.

Harry tried it. It was cold and delicious and good.

"Thank you." His voice cracked.

Snape did not acknowledge the thanks. Instead he took a long swig of the bottle, his eyes shut and his throat working as he swallowed, then set it down.

Neither of them spoke, and after a moment, Harry looked away.

~

He never deliberately thought about 'the incident'. He even called it that as a way of sliding his mind past the dangerous edge of the memory. But it was like a scar that had never faded, or a tiny bomb that could be triggered by anything. A look. A casual word. Being drunk. Or lonely.

Time had dulled it though, thank Christ. It was blurred; there were flashes, images, and lots of blanks. He had been drunk after all. Off his head really. Out of his mind. It was years in the past. Though he still remembered how it had happened, all too clearly.

Harry's stomach had been hot with the firewhisky he'd been liberally pouring down his throat for hours. They were in a small mess room in a bunker somewhere in England. A fire burned down in the hearth making his Aurors' skin shine with sweat, making them strip off their robes. But they'd been out in the cold for days hunting, and heat that didn't just come from the end of a wand was a luxury.

It was the only time Harry had worked directly with Snape since he'd been 'privately _fucking_ exonerated' for Dumbledore's death. His mission had needed Snape's inside knowledge. In the end it was the only time they worked together. Harry made sure of it.

He hated him. He remembered that most clearly of all.

His team crowded around the big table, drinking, and glowing with their small victory; the successful capture of three DE's, prime with knowledge of Voldemort's plans — absolutely ripe for the picking — and it was all thanks to Snape. Hate wasn't a strong enough word. Harry wanted to rip his head off, smash his face in, pour so much Verisaterum down his throat he'd admit he'd _enjoyed_ it. That whatever Dumbledore might have asked him to do, whatever unbreakable vows he'd sworn or not sworn, he'd enjoyed it. That he'd looked down the barrel of his wand at the most powerful wizard of their age, reduced to a helpless old man, and he'd enjoyed killing him. Harry had seen the hatred twisting his face.

It didn't help that Snape ignored him. He took orders from no one, and his knowledge essentially put him charge of Harry's team. Harry was forced to defer to him again and again. And yeah, that rankled. Worse, Snape could actually do it. Snape could lead a small guerilla attack very nicely indeed. Better than Harry.

So Harry sat in the stuffy room, celebrating with his team, all of them high on firewhisky and _winning_. But he was boiling with rage, getting drunker and angrier as the evening dragged on. His eyes drawn constantly to Snape where he sat apart in the corner, his face impassive, and his hand steady on a glass.

In Harry's defense he hadn't got laid in months. He hadn't got laid regularly in over a year. Since Oliver was killed. Now that was something Harry did remember, in exquisite, painful fucking detail. Oliver. He was just another dead Auror now, another name on the list. The plans they'd tentatively made for after the war were a joke. A stupid waste of time as it turned out. War was stronger. It beat everything, no matter which side you were on.

He was exhausted — furious, drunk, high — and _lonely_ for fuck's sake.

Which is why when he felt Snape's hand on his leg and opened his eyes to see the room was empty except for them, he didn't push Snape to the floor. He didn't crack his skull open against the stones like he wanted to. He didn't kick him in the balls and walk out leaving him in a bloody heap like he deserved.

Which is why when Snape licked his own hand and slid it deep into Harry's open pants he let him.

Which is why when Snape's mouth closed on him and sucked out his come he screamed and arched and pushed Snape's head into his crotch as hard as he could.

Which is why when Snape pushed him to the floor and pulled up his hips and slicked himself up and fucked him against the wall, so hard his head crashed into it again and again, he didn't stop him.

Snape had grunted his name a few times, his voice filled with anger and lust. If Harry could have turned his head he knew what he would have seen on Snape's face. The same expression of twisted hatred he'd seen on the tower when he watched him murder Dumbledore.

And that was why too — that was why he let him, to know for himself the depths of Snape's hatred.

Snape had come in a violent spasm, pulling roughly out of Harry and dropping him to the floor. He'd leaned back on his knees, his hand twitching over his wet cock, unable to stop touching himself. In that tiny moment of vulnerability Snape's eyes reflexively closed. Harry pushed himself up the wall, spat viciously into Snape's open mouth, and walked out.

So yeah, he called it 'the incident', and mostly he'd forgotten it. It was buried under years of war, years of short, convenient arrangements for sex with other men.

He'd never worked with Snape again, but that was as far as luxury extended. Snape was always there, at meetings, war councils, ceremonies, rituals. His work always vital, the link with the Death Eaters he provided at such cost to himself more vital than any other advantage they had. More vital than Harry.

Harry would sometimes glance up and find Snape's heavy gaze on him, over a map, or a table, or a room. And he'd look away.

But that was a long time ago. A long time in the past. When Snape died he hadn't thought about it much. It didn't really affect him — except that it made everything they did much more dangerous, acting blind, with no information.

But as the war dragged on and on Harry learned something about hatred too, something that eventually drained away his anger at Snape. He knew that Snape's hatred of Dumbledore had allowed him to cast the spell, but that it didn't necessarily mean… it didn't mean… when he was really honest with himself he knew, he could understand… that there was love in it too. That underneath the hate, it was an act of love.

~

Snape was patiently building a fire in a circle of large stones a few meters from the hut. A stand made of long metal rods stood over the stones, hooks dangling from it. When the fire was established, Snape hung the pot of water above it to heat.

Harry had been watching him, but now Snape picked up his beer again and sat on the ground, his back to the hut, and his long legs stretched out. Firelight edged the angles of his face. He turned his head to look at Harry, and Harry looked away.

"Potter," said Snape, after another long pull on his beer. "Tell me about the war."

Harry looked at him again, but his eyes were shadowed, and his face gave nothing away.

"Potter," Snape said again, and the syllables of Harry's name sounded strange in his mouth. Free of malice, free even of emotion. "Three years ago the Dark Lord discovered I was still loyal to the Order." He ran a hand roughly over his face and through his hair. "He also discovered Dumbledore's death at my hand was part of our elaborate… plan." Snape's voice was tight with control, but his face looked grey.

Harry nodded. Snape was staring into the fire and didn't see.

After a while he resumed speaking. "I was certain he would kill me, unable to resist him, at the edge of my sanity — I won't burden you with the distasteful specifics — but I did not die. Instead I came to myself on the same piece of ground where I found you today, badly wounded, but not fatally, and with no memory of how I came here."

Harry nodded again, visions of the appalling deaths Voldemort inflicted on his prisoners parading grotesquely through his mind. He wouldn't wish one on his worst enemy. Or Snape.

"At the time, against my better judgment, I was cognisant of a great deal of the Order's plans." Snape paused, drawing in a steady breath. "And before he exiled me, Voldemort split apart every block in my mind."

He pressed a clenched fist into his forehead, and closed his eyes. "So tell me of the war, Potter."

Harry searched for the right words. "We thought you were dead," he said finally. "Your magical trace disappeared completely. There were rumours of your death too, a horrible death."

Snape glanced at Harry, his mouth sour. "You must be disappointed. Thinking your nasty Potions Master dead all these years. And yet here I am."

"That was a long time ago," Harry said awkwardly. Snape raised one eyebrow.

Harry cleared his throat. "We proceeded with the attack on the headquarters in Manchester, and yeah… it was a disaster. They were ready for us. Not many of us died though…"

It was a lie. Snape looked sharply at him, seeing the truth.

"After that, we knew he'd got information from somewhere, most likely you," said Harry. "It didn't happen again."

"How many died?" asked Snape, like it made a difference.

Harry felt sick and helpless thinking about it. Thirteen Aurors had died at the scene. Five more at St. Mungo's over the next few days. But much worse, the Death Eaters had taken a group of 27 Muggle school children prisoner. They used them as living barriers to prevent the Aurors from attacking. Then they killed them anyway. For sport.

His body flooded with rage. "How many died?" he shouted. "Then, or since then? Three more years of the fucking war, Snape, and you've been growing a bloody garden!"

As he shouted he tried to stand up, to punch Snape's arrogant betraying face to a pulp, but pain ripped through him, and he collapsed back onto his seat, breath ragged.

"Why the hell didn't you come back?"

Snape ignored him. He stood up and placed his empty beer bottle inside the door of the hut. Then he walked to the fire, carefully lifted the steaming pot with a stick through the handle, and carried it to where Harry sat. From the wooden box he took Muggle first aid supplies: bandages, ointment, and disinfectant, which he poured into the hot water. From the hut he fetched a towel, some soap, and some clothes. He placed these in front of Harry and turned his back.

"Strip and wash yourself carefully with the soap and disinfectant. Then dry yourself. I will attend to your wounds."

Harry stared at his back. "No fucking way!" he said angrily.

Snape turned his livid gaze on Harry. "From your complete inability to control your temper, your difficulty walking, your visible wounds, and the pained expression on your revolting little face…" Snape's voice broke with anger, and he stopped. Harry saw the tendons strain in his neck. "From all this, I know you are badly hurt indeed. You will go into shock. Your wounds will become infected. I must attend to you." Somehow Snape had regained his vicious self-control, but Harry knew it wouldn't take much for him to explode, raining hate over everything around him.

He stood up slowly and painfully and muttered something.

"What?" Snape demanded.

"Okay," said Harry. The pain he'd felt trying to attack Snape had worn off, taking with it some of his anger and adrenaline. And the thought of Snape seeing his body made him squirm with embarrassment.

But he needn't have worried. As soon as he started stiffly pulling off his clothes, Snape moved back into the hut. A few painful minutes later, when Harry was finally naked, Snape emerged again. Harry flinched, but Snape did not even glance his way.

Carrying a chopping board, a knife, and a heavy frying pan, he walked back to the fire. He raked it to expose the glowing coals and rested the pan in them. He poured in a small measure of oil and straightened up. Harry cowered, trying to hide himself, but Snape's eyes remained as far from his poor injured body as possible.

Ignoring Harry entirely, Snape walked through the garden, cutting a few vegetables and herbs, which he carried to the stream. He washed them a little way down from the pool. Leaving them in a pile on a dry stone, he reached into the deep water again, this time emerging with a fish. It was alive. Harry was fascinated. The clever bastard must have caught it and trapped it there somehow till he wanted it. Snape held the fish, and with an efficient twist of the knife, he cut off its head.

"Get on with it, Potter," Snape said, though he wasn't looking at Harry.

Harry went back to washing himself, but in the corner of his eye he saw Snape's knife flashing as he cleaned and gutted the fish, throwing the entrails and skin into some kind of pit.

The soap and disinfectant made Harry's whole body sting and his skin glow red. It was excruciating. Tears sprung in his eyes, but with no way of healing magically, he knew it was necessary. Once or twice when he was still a child, Aunt Petunia had applied disinfectant to one of the injuries Dudley gave him. He remembered clearly that she seemed to resent having to care for him and to take pleasure in the pain it caused, in equal measure. That's probably how Snape feels, thought Harry.

He dried himself gingerly with the rough old towel, wrapped it around his waist, and sat by the fire. It wasn't really cold, but the warmth of the flames felt good on his abused skin. He realised with a jolt it was summer. The ripe vegetables, the roses, the warm air: somehow he'd ended up on the other side of the world.

Snape walked back up from the stream. He tossed the fish and vegetables in the hot pan with some water. Harry's stomach ached with hunger.

Then Snape picked up the jar of antiseptic ointment. He knelt in front of Harry and began applying it thickly to the wounds on his chest. Harry's breath caught in his throat. Snape's strong fingers drew steadily across his chest, painting cool stripes over the stinging wounds. The strange intimacy of Snape's hands on his skin enveloped him. Snape's head was inches from his own. Harry stared at the side of his neck, the harsh line of his jaw, and his mouth flooded with saliva. It was too much, the hot pain, the cold ointment, the firm sweep of hands on his body. It was too long since he'd been touched. He shuddered, barely able to hide his response. But Snape continued rubbing in the ointment, betraying no awareness of the tension in Harry's body. His mouth pulled into a thin hard line, inches from Harry's throat.

Harry forced himself to be still. He forced down the flush threatening to rise on his chest. But Snape's hands went on and on, touching him firmly, professionally. Slowly and methodically taking him apart. Now tilting his head and painting gentle lines over the new scars on his face and the cut in his hair. Now moving around to his back and rubbing softly into the bruising there. Harry couldn't stop his head tipping forward, exposing his neck. He began to float, the touch on his skin building a rhythm in his body he hadn't felt for months.

Then Snape began speaking and his voice ran over Harry like a river.

"When I found myself here three years ago, I was close to death. I was delirious but somehow I staggered around for two days, surviving on water until I found a road."

Harry's mind cleared and he jerked upright.

"A road? Then we can get out of here?"

Snape nudged at him and Harry obediently stood up, hardly noticing when Snape pulled the towel off his hips.

"Yes, Potter. Two hours walk from here is a road of sorts. Half a days walk again is a small Muggle town. I collapsed on the road. The next time I was conscious, I was in a Muggle hospital bed."

As he spoke, Snape carefully rubbed ointment into the backs of Harry's calves and thighs. He had deep curse wounds there and long scratches from the forest.

"My wounds were mostly healed, and of course, once awake, I was questioned. Who was I? Where had I come from? Who had caused my injuries? The Muggle police came." Snape turned Harry around to face him, his head level with Harry's groin, which he steadily ignored.

Harry felt utterly exposed, laid open for Snape. His whole body longed for his hands, for his mouth. But Snape only bent his head, scooped up some more ointment, and began methodically applying it to the darkening bruises on his hips.

"I acted as though I had lost my memory, and as soon as my body was well, I escaped." He smoothed the ointment down Harry's legs.

To Harry's desperate horror his cock began to fill. Just enough to lengthen a little, to fatten a little, and to arch hopefully in the direction of Snape's shorn head. Harry dragged air into his lungs and tried to will it down. He could feel Snape's warm breath on his thighs.

"I stole what I needed to survive and tried to return. Did you know in the greater part of the southern hemisphere, almost no witches or wizards are born? Almost the entire Wizarding population is concentrated in the north. The Dark Lord chose his prison well. We are on an island hundreds of miles from any other land mass. There is nothing magical here, of any description. I could not Floo, Portkey, or Apparate home. I could not send an owl, or any magical creature. I could not leave by air on the Muggle aeroplanes. For that, I needed money, and legal documents, which I could not obtain. I could not buy passage on a ship for the same reason. And when I tried to steal a small boat, or hide on one, I discovered a greater obstacle. Voldemort has sealed the coast of this island against me. I can walk onto a beach, but I cannot cross the waterline. He has erected an invisible wall around me."

The despair in Snape's voice had made Harry's cock wilt. Snape stood up and began unceremoniously applying gauze bandages to the worst of his wounds.

After a while he spoke again. "After months of trying to get home I came here, stealing what I needed from the town. I thought remaining near the place where magic exiled me was my best hope of escape. Of return."

He handed Harry the jeans and shirt and turned away to the fire. As Harry dressed, Snape took the frying pan off the coals. He fetched bowls and spoons from the hut and filled them with the fish soup.

They sat on the ground by the fire, eating. Harry's mind was whirling with plans and possibilities, but instead of talking, he ate. The soup was good, fresh and clean-tasting. It filled and warmed him all the way through. He finished in minutes, and Snape, watching him, silently indicated he should help himself to more. When they had both finished, Harry awkwardly stood up. He took their bowls and the pan down to the water and washed them out downstream from the pool, swirling stones and grit in them until they were clean. Then he scooped up handfuls of the cool water and drank and drank and drank.

Snape was still sitting by the fire. Harry laid everything out to dry and stood looking at him.

"There's a pit round the back of the hut, and a spade, about twenty meters away," said Snape. He handed him a small torch. Harry picked his way cautiously to the pit. It was dark now and the torch was weak. He only needed to piss, but he wanted to respect Snape's territory.

When he had finished he turned off the torch, and stood in the dark for a while. He thought about the strangeness of finding himself here with Snape, all these years after they thought he was dead. The forest was dark, and silent, and menacing around him. After a while he flicked on the torch and walked back to the fire.

Snape had laid a blanket in front of it. He stood with his back half-turned to Harry. Harry could see the strain of tension in his neck. He could see dark patches under his arms where the day's sweat had stained his T-shirt.

"I sometimes wonder if The Dark Lord considered this exile more a bizarre form of punishment or a reward." Snape's voice was emotionless. After a minute he spoke again. "I will not lie to you, Potter. Sometimes it has seemed a reward."

Harry stood watching the firelight lick over the skin of Snape's arms, the uncompromising bones of his face. He thought about what he wanted to say.

"Since I was eleven, I have been made to think I could defeat him. If anyone could, it would be me. I've met him many times and survived. Some bit of luck, some coincidence has saved my life. Sometimes other people died instead of me. But today I met him alone, and he was stronger than me. In every way." It hurt to lay himself open, and Harry waited for Snape's inevitable stinging comment, but none came.

Harry searched his mind and found all the rest he had to say could wait.

He walked over to Snape, blood roaring in his ears. Under his bare feet the ground was still warm from the sun. He curled his fingers into the worn fabric of Snape's shirt and froze, his heart pounding, but Snape did not move. So he carefully lifted Snape's arms, and pulled the shirt over his head.

Snape's back was covered with a lattice of deep scars, descending below the waist of his jeans. They'd been made with something that had cut into his skin evenly. Deeply. Perfectly. Harry ran his fingers over them, making Snape's breath come harshly. It seemed impossible that he had survived.

He knelt behind him and gently undid the buttons on Snape's jeans, sliding them down. His mouth grew wet as he saw Snape wore nothing underneath. He held Snape's hips, helping him step from the crumpled jeans. Then he buried his face in his strong, scarred thighs.

Snape's strange passivity broke. With a deep groan he turned and wrenched Harry to his feet. He pushed his nose in the curve of Harry's collarbone and breathed him in, his breath rasping against his skin. Harry's nostrils filled with musk. His cock hardened inside his borrowed jeans, and he dragged it roughly against Snape's body.

Snape pushed him away, holding his shoulders like a vice. Harry felt blood rise in his face. Snape's eyes were unreadable. He looked like he could devour Harry or push him violently away. They stared at each other, separated by the length of Snape's arms. Then Harry looked down and saw what Snape wanted him to see. The front of his body was crossed over and over again with more of the vicious scars. Snape's rigid cock, in its thatch of dark hair, was the only unharmed thing on his body. Harry's legs folded. He hung in space for a moment, supported by Snape's arms.

Torn by horror and lust, he forced himself to look back into Snape's face. "It was a punishment," he whispered. "He meant to punish you."

There was a long moment when he thought Snape might attack him. But instead he ground out Harry's name, like his mouth was filled with rocks: he licked into the hollow of Harry's throat, like it was filled with sweetness: his hands expertly stripped away his clothes, like opening a gift.

His mouth moved down Harry's chest, finding pathways of skin between bandages and shallow cuts, making Harry's needy cock jerk against his thigh. Every swipe of Snape's tongue seemed to wipe him clean, of injury, of pain, of everything but desperate need. He swayed on his feet, all the heat in his body rushing to his cock, to the place where Snape's mouth met his skin.

Then Snape pushed him down to the blanket. He placed his hands on Harry's hips and in one fluid movement sucked Harry's cock into his mouth. Harry felt himself taken over by that tight wet heat for the second time in his life. But this time he was sucked under, colonized, broken to pieces by the simplicity of Snape's tongue on his skin, by his strong hands pinning him to the ground. His eyes blurred, and the stars seemed to wheel through the sky in collusion with Snape's churning mouth.

He groaned with pleasure and came in spasms. Snape pulled his mouth away, letting Harry spurt onto his scarred chest, his flushed cock. Harry opened his eyes to see Snape above him, painted with come. His control broke and he spread himself urgently against the ground, opening his legs as wide as possible, using his fingers to spread his own arse. Snape's eyes blackened. He swiped a hand over his body and gathered up Harry's semen. Then suddenly he stopped.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, his voice tight.

"No," said Harry desperately. "No no no." He grabbed the clothes he could reach, padded them up, and made a pillow for his back. He lay on it and spread himself wide again.

Snape gently lifted Harry's arse into his lap, pushed his legs over his shoulders, and rubbed the semen deep into him with shaking fingers.

He wiped the last of it on his own cock, and his eyes met Harry's.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice so quiet Harry tried to grind his arse into Snape's groin. Snape held him still.

"Yes," said Harry.

So Snape carefully slid all the way into him, and for a moment they both stayed utterly still. Harry stared up into Snape's shadowed face but his eyes were dark and he could read nothing in them. Then Snape wrenched his eyes away. His head hung low over Harry's chest and he began moving in a broken rhythm, too fast, too slow, too much. His arms held Harry in place, and his cock filled him, and his breathing was loud in the night. Then Snape's back arched and his body went rigid. Harry wrapped his hand around the back of Snape's straining neck for leverage, and as Snape pumped semen deep into him he twisted on Snape's cock, and fisted his own, until finally he came again, weakly this time, the pleasure wringing him dry.

Without thinking he pulled Snape down to him, his wet cock in Snape's pubic hair, Snape's still inside him. He roughly held Snape's head and pressed their open mouths together, awkwardly pushing his tongue into Snape's wet mouth and feeling Snape push aggressively back. He fitted their mouths together, cradling Snape's head, and Snape's tongue grew gentle against his.

He tried to tell Snape everything — with his lips, with his tongue, with his hands. How Voldemort was a stupid bastard. How he despised Muggles so much he didn't know about computers, or mail, or phones. How Harry and Snape would walk to the town tomorrow and find an international directory. How they'd phone Hermione's parents collect and give them a message. How Hermione would get the message and take it to the Order. How they'd find a way back.

And confused with the words, like a code they hadn't deciphered, his body gave Snape's another message. That he was glad to see Snape alive. That he was glad to be kissing him, breathing against his lips.

He wrote his messages again and again into Snape's mouth, until they were both too tired to do anything but wrap the blanket around their bodies and fall asleep.


End file.
